


Hidden Power

by 3byeol



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pokemon Fusion, Crack Treated Seriously, Fluff, Gen, M/M, hobbit reverse big bang 2014, hrbb2014
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-03-01 14:04:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2775746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3byeol/pseuds/3byeol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Most dwarves know from a very young age what trade they want to pursue. Ori has never considered being anything other than a scribe. It's a steady, respectable trade, not too far above his station; it gives him a chance to learn his letters and read texts he would otherwise never dream of touching. And anyway, the work itself is something he enjoys.</p>
<p>...And so, quite naturally, he ends up throwing it all to the wayside to train pokemon instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hidden Power

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Hobbit Reverse Big Bang 2014! The prompt was for a Dwori pokemon AU, art by Kyra ([adambrownslefttesticle](http://jimmynesbitt.co.vu/) on tumblr.) [I'll edit in the link in a few^^] If you like the art, be sure to go tell her so!! Again, all of the art/ inspiration for this thing was her doing, so please drop her a note so she can feel the love. <3
> 
> You do not need to have an in-depth knowledge of Pokemon to read this--I'm thinking of putting a small note at the end of each chapter to link to any pokemon mentioned, in case you aren't King Nerd with all 700+ memorized. (And plausible deniability if you don't want to admit you are.) I have tried to stay accurate with sizes/ abilities/ etc but at the end of the day I am writing hobbit/pokemon fanfiction so clearly I don't give a single fuck about the sanctity of anything whatsoever.
> 
> Enjoy!

“Still not _right_.”

Ori resisted the impulse to drop his pen on the desk - he did not want to splatter any ink, or damage the nib - but allowed himself a quiet sigh. He was allowed to feel disappointed, he knew. Even angry at himself. He had taken two weeks on this scroll and it was all for nothing: the spacing he'd carefully measured out was all wrong, his ascenders were smooth, but the descenders were shaky; he'd spent ages on the border, but the left was subtly more cramped than the right, and when he tried to fix it he'd only ruined it the other way round. He'd used up two blotter sheets, half a bottle of ink, and that wasn't even getting _into_ the sheer amount of time he'd wasted.

It was enough to make him want to repeat a few words of Nori's--one of the really nasty ones. One that would make Dori box him about the ears if he heard.

His smeargle, normally content to sit near his feet and burble gently while it minded its own painting, looked up at him and looped its tail around his ankle. Ori sighed again, and leaned to the side so he could stroke her head. Sometimes he was jealous of her. She could copy anyone’s work flawlessly when she had the mind to, and she must never feel the frustration that came when the work in your head didn’t match the work on the page. What he wouldn't give to have that kind of talent! He wasn't a bad scribe, by any means, but it had all come from hour after hour of painstaking work. He wasn't the sort to take to it naturally, no matter how much he wished otherwise.

 _And to make things worse_ , Ori thought, _I’m down to three weeks before Durin’s Day._ He could start over, but he'd have no room for any more mistakes.

Ori rolled his shoulders, trying to relieve the mental pressure with the physical, then began to quietly pack up his things. At one time he might have stayed in the scriptorium late into the night, forcing himself to keep working until his eyes blurred with exhaustion; but he was too old for that now. He’d learned when it was better to quit and come back with a clearer head.

He had a satchel, for his papers and ink bottles, and a soft leather case to hold his writing tools. That one was meant to be folded up and tied shut with a cord attached to the edge. Both were new, still smelling of the oil the seller had brushed over them, and both had been gifts from Dori. They were far too expensive, especially for an apprentice; but Dori had played it all down. They were 'necessities,' or so he said. Ori disagreed, but he had decided to let the matter go. He didn’t want to argue with his brother, let alone over something actually _good_.

He contented himself by planning to repay Dori with his first official commission as a journeyman. But that meant actually succeeding in his projects. If the last several weeks were any indication, that would not be happening any time soon. _  
_

Ori grit his teeth, trying to shove that thought away. Anger wasn’t going to help him. Worrying wasn’t going to help him, either; and if he showed up at home with a scowl on his face Dori would know something was wrong. He would chip away at Ori until he confessed all of his problems, and then he would go on trying to force him to be positive, and... it just wasn't what Ori was looking for. He _did_ admire his brother's stubborn will, but sometimes he wished Dori could just let things go. Talking about his frustration wouldn't make it disappear. He'd rather take his mind off of it.

 

Ori left the scriptorium, feet carrying him along the familar way towards home. The walk wasn’t a long one. It was only an hour during the busy mornings and afternoons, and less than that in the evening. He had left earlier than usual, so he could afford to spend some time in town eating dinner, maybe even dropping by the cobbler first. The soles of his boots were well-made, but he had a tear in one of the uppers...

Ori was so caught up in his plans that he very nearly dropped his satchel--he really would have, if it weren’t strapped across his chest--as he heard a great caw from one of the arches overhead. He stopped in his tracks, one hand clutched over his heart, and tried to figure out what had made the noise. There were few birds _inside_ the mountain, as the famous ravens of Erebor all lived outside on the peaks or closer to Dale, but Ori could clearly see a beak and a beady red eye peeking over one of the shadowed rafters. It took one final earsplitting caw for Ori to recognize it as Nori’s murkrow. He'd only seen it once, several years earlier, so it would be an understatement to say he was surprised.

“Well hello there,” Ori said softly. He strafed to the side so he could see better, without putting a crick into his neck. “What are you doing here?” He couldn't think of any reason for one of Nori's pokemon to be about. Nori had left home with his pokemon a little over seven years ago, heading for parts unknown. He was… well, a fugitive, to be brutally frank. Was he trying to deliver a letter…? Or was this a sign that something worse had happened?

Before Ori's mind could run away with that idea, the murkrow fixed its bloodshot eye on Ori's throat. With a quick flap of its wings, it glided down from its perch, cutting so close to Ori's body that he actually took a step back to avoid being gored. The bird tangled its talons in the knitting of Ori's sweater and started flapping wildly, wings flitting right in Ori's face. He let out a squawk of his own, and tried to grab the murkrow's feet, but it was no use-- it wasn't going to let go, not least without pulling half the yarn to tatters, and Ori wasn't strong enough to force the issue. It began pulling him in the direction of Berylbridge, and Ori had little choice other than to follow if he didn't want to become a walking pile of ribbons.

Berylbridge was, strictly speaking, a faster route home from the scriptorium. But that was because it was a direct route cutting through the middle of some of the roughest areas. Ori had only been in them once or twice when Nori was still around, and nowadays Dori always insisted that Ori avoid them if he were alone. He normally had no problem obeying that rule; he had no desire to get beaten up or robbed as it was.

Ori walked on with mounting trepidation, but the murkrow did not, in fact, take him deep into the gambling dens, smokeshacks, pubs and run-down alehouses like he half feared. Instead, it tugged him to the outskirts--more specifically, a neighborhood informally named Coldsteel Square. The only thing of note to be found here was Erebor's largest jail, built into a natural stone spire that stretched up from the deepest levels of the mountain. Four guards were posted outside - one at the doors, one up on the wall, and two circling the base in opposite directions - with helmets tarnished from heavy use. Another bird, this one a large skarmory, sat perched on the ramparts like a gargoyle.

According to Nori, the guardsmen used her discarded feathers to make their swords. Ori could easily imagine her watching over the entirety of Erebor with sharp yellow eyes, rattling her wings whenever she saw something she didn’t like.

The murkrow grew calm as they drew closer, finally working free of Ori's sweater so it could clamber up to his shoulder instead. Ori still had no clue what he was supposed to be accomplishing here, although he did have a sick suspicion in his stomach. Even as a child he'd had no illusions about Nori's criminal activities. Or what their consequences were. He ended up lingering outside the entryway, shifting uneasily under the stare of the guards, until the murkrow pecked him with impatience.

One of the door guards made Ori ink his name and a thumbprint on a blank roster before they let him enter. It was like stepping into a beehive: dwarrows rushing about everywhere, weapons and pokeballs strapped to their torsos, stacks of paper clenched in their fists, equipment piled in their arms, keys jingling at their neck. Some weren’t carrying much of anything but stomped past him in such a hurry it was as though they didn’t even notice he was there. The only exception was a dwarrowdam seated at an imposing desk facing the doors. She looked young, probably not much older than Ori himself; and she held an air of calm about her like a stolid boulder in the midst of this boiling sea.

“Welcome,” she said, pinning Ori with her eyes. She reached under the desktop and produced a great leather-bound book, similar to the one outside. It looked very expensive. “Sign in please. Name, print, reason for visit. Are you here to report a crime?” She looked at Ori with a gentle expression so at odds with her bulging arm muscles that Ori nearly laughed. He swallowed it at the last minute, making a sort of strangled chortle in his throat.

“No. I’m here for my brother--erm, he was arrested or something. I think.”

The dwarrowdam’s eyebrows rose up, but she didn't comment. She only leaned over the book to read his name. “Oh,” she said, after a moment. “Talk to Vestri. Third floor.” She pointed to a rough staircase excavated into the wall. He wouldn't have ever seen it if she hadn't shown him, as it was built into a natural-looking corner. Ori had no idea who the stonemasons were that had built this place, it was so old; but whoever they were they had been old masters of the craft. Not that it made him want to spend any more time in this place than he had to.

“Thanks,” Ori said quickly. _Third floor, third floor. Who is Vestri?_ he wondered, stomach churning all over again as he climbed the stairs. _The gaoler?_  

The stairs twisted dizzyingly upwards, more like sharp switchbacks than a regular spiral. They finally spat him onto a landing marked with a _III_. It was much smaller than Ori expected, the whole of it dominated by a desk just as imposing as the one on the first. Ori didn't even need to ask around for directions, since there was only one other dwarrow on the entire floor. He--Vestri--was a bored-looking official, one of the ones with keys. They were strung on a silver bangle that appeared too tight to take off. Ori wondered for a brief moment if he had to wear it while he slept, or if there was a clasp. He was tempted to ask, but the old dwarrow just took one look at Ori, frowned, and started rifling through some papers.

Ori was used to papers--naturally, in his craft--but these were a world apart. They were piled all over the place, corners stuck out every which way with no rhyme or reason that Ori could see. He was forced to conclude that they were only meant to give you a papercut if you weren't paying attention. A geodude sat on top of one stack as a paperweight, arms folded sternly.  _Security,_ Ori thought, trying not to flush under its stare.  _It probably attacks you if you want to tamper with anything._ He looked anxiously past the desk, into the tiny cluster of cells beyond.

“Excuse me,” he said, willing his voice to stay even, “I’m here for -- “

“His bail is set at 870 Durins.”

“What?”

“Your brother,” Vestri said flatly. “870 Durin bail.” The keys around his wrist jingled, and only then did Ori realize that they were actually a pokemon as well, and probably had a mind of their own. The sense of surprise was perfunctory, dulled by everything else that had been dumped on his shoulders without any forewarning.

For a moment, all Ori could do was stare; he was mentally floundering. 870 Durins! He had had no idea how to even make sense of it. _T_ _hat’s far more money than I have,_  he thought despairingly. Who--other than the king himself--would ever walk around with 870 Durins on their person? Even if you tried, they’d be thieved within a minute; there was no way to carry that kind of money without teetering to one side with every step. Weren't there laws against this kind of thing?

This couldn't possibly be fair. Even for Nori, a repeat criminal, it... well, it wasn't as though he'd ever done any lasting harm to anybody!

As upset as Ori clearly was, Vestri didn’t look very sympathetic at all. “If the bail isn’t paid, in the stockade he stays," he said flatly. "Listen, your brother is _not_ to have any visitors and I have plenty of work on my hands. If you haven't got the money, you need to run along.”

When he heard that, panic very nearly froze Ori to the spot. He felt the murkrow's claws digging into his shoulder, and sucked in a breath. “Wait," he blurted. "I have something--I mean, I can give you a letter for the bank. I have the seal, so it will all be official. Just… please don’t send me away.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wanted to wince. There were a thousand reasons why this was a bad idea. Probably more, to be honest. _But I don't have any other choice, now do I? I can't very well leave my own brother in jail!_  And Vestri was the one person standing between Nori and his freedom, if he could just be convinced; that was worth any price. What kind of monster would Ori be if he just left empty-handed?

A few terrifying moments passed then, as Vestri thought the offer over with a face so expressionless that Ori couldn't read it. He finally nodded, then waved away Ori's relieved thanks, producing a piece of important-looking stationery from thin air. He pushed it towards the free edge of the desk, along with a little pot of pounce and an inkwell.

Heart tripping in his chest, Ori grabbed the paper and fumbled with his pen and seal. He wrote a blobby letter to authorize the full 870 Durins extracted from his schooling fund, signed it, sealed it, and tried to ignore the physical pain that was stabbing through his temples. It felt like he was doing something wrong. The only reason he had the bank seal at all was because Dori had deposited the money in his name. Ori wasn’t meant to actually use any of it, not for himself; it was all meant to go towards paying off his apprenticeship and materials and lessons. _.._

 _Worry about it later_ , Ori told himself firmly. Freeing Nori was his most immediate concern. Everything else would just have to wait.

He offered the finished bank letter to Vestri, powdering some of the pounce and feebly waving a hand to help the ink dry. Vestri swiped a finger across one sentence, then folded it up and tucked it into a chest pocket. “Alright then," he said flatly. "This way. We don't normally keep the prisoners down here, only the special ones."

Moving at a brisk pace, he led Ori straight back to the stairs and up one more flight. This floor had rather more people, most of them guards clustered near the door. There were pokemon in matching armour patrolling the hall between the holding cells. Everything was all tight and cramped, the air was stale, dulled with the scents of sweaty bodies and metal; and there wasn't so much as a window to at least give the illusion of space. Most of the prisoners were facing the walls, probably for a semblance of privacy, and they'd been put into shabby uniforms streaked with dirt. The only one who was still wearing his own clothes was actually a man. He stood so tall that he had to hunch over just to fit under the ceiling. Ori had never seen a man--not up close--but he did his best not to stare as he walked by. It was all a grim picture, anyway, and not one Ori wanted to look at any closer than he needed to.

Nori’s cell turned out to be the one farthest in the rear. It was also the smallest, as much of the space was eaten up by a sloping wall. The only furniture was a small cot placed in the corner, which looked untouched. Nori--may Mahal's name be exalted in praise!--was stretched out on the bare floor, head casually propped up on one hand. Ori was relieved to see that he was all right. He wasn't as dirty as the other prisoners, even his _hair_ was immaculate, and...

Ori's relief grew thin as he took a second look at his brother. Nori's face was paler than it should have been, especially since he had presumably been living outside the mountain. And the skin was pulled tight around his eyes. _Are you alright?_  Ori wanted to ask. The question was burning up inside him, but he couldn't make his mouth move.

Nori didn't react whatsoever as Ori and Vestri stopped in front of his cell. Even when Vestri moved forward to release the lock with the pokemon shaped like the bangle of keys, Nori didn't do so much as blink. Ori willed his brother to say something, _anything_ , or at least to look up; but there was only tense silence until the pins of the lock made a soft _snick_ and the rusty door creaked open.

“Be quick,” Vestri said, waving Ori towards the cell. “You can pick up his things downstairs. I hope I never have to see you in here again.”

He left without any further fanfare, which suited Ori just fine. He didn’t want to decide whether or not to say ‘thank you for the help,’ considering Vestri locked Nori up in the first place.

 

Now that they were alone, Nori finally seemed to come to life. He sat up straight, then used the bars to lever himself onto his feet. "What are you doing here, Ori?" he asked sharply. He almost looked angry, but it was softened with genuine confusion. He really didn't seem to know what Ori was doing here.

“Me?” Ori’s voice rose with surprise. “Getting you out, of course. That’s why you sent your murkrow to get me, isn’t it?” He lifted a hand towards his shoulder, brushing his fingers against some of its greasy feathers.

“No. I don't know what--" Nori sighed angrily. "You shouldn’t have been here at all. I sent him to go get me the _key_.” He looked at his murkrow, face darkening. “Uppity little rat. Flew back out of nowhere, dusk stone clutched in one foot, and ever since then he won’t listen! Like having that stone stashed away is some sort of threat. Big mister honchkrow wouldn’t need to take orders from anyone, is that it?”

The murkrow ruffled its feathers, and gave a sarcastic caw.

Ori didn't say anything for a moment, as his thoughts went flying even faster than before. There was a vile, burning realization bubbling up inside him; the realization that he hadn't needed to come and pay all of this money for Nori since he had been planning to break out on his own. _Don't be a fool,_ he chided himself. _This was the only thing you could have done--unless you wanted Nori to be charged with escape on top of everything else!_ He couldn't second-guess his choice, not now. Not even when he could only imagine how few coins were going to be left to his name once that letter was brought to the bank...

 _Later_ , Ori told himself. _Later_. He hadn’t seen his brother for years. There were plenty of questions he wanted answers to, ones that had kept him up at night--or would, if he didn't get them off his shoulders. He hadn't imagined that he would get a chance to see Nori like this, not in a hundred years. "Why are you here?" Ori finally asked. "What happened?" Of everything he wanted to know, this was the most immediate. 

“Well, that's a bit of a story, I'm afraid.” Nori shot a poisonous smile at a pokemon Ori didn’t recognize, one of the ones patrolling. It was a fire-colored dog, tipped with cream fur and black stripes. It paused to sit on the free side of Nori’s bars, wisps of smoke issuing from its mouth with each pant. Nori sneered at it. "They have a detachment of sentries down in Dale now, including one with a little odor sleuth."

Ori winced again, imagining what must have happened. Nori was good at staying out of sight, but he probably didn't know how to keep from being _sniffed_ out, which probably explained how he had been tracked down. "But what were you doing in Dale?" he asked.

Nori should have known better than to come anywhere near home, considering the warrants out for his arrest. The last he'd heard, Nori was closer to the Blue Mountains than to Erebor. His infrequent letters certainly supported that idea; always arriving tattered and months out of date... 

The stripey dog perked its ears, swiveling towards them to listen. “Nevermind,” Ori said hastily, eyeing it with mistrust. “Don’t answer that.” Getting this...whatever it was...  _interested_ was the last thing they needed. And it was hardly smart to ask Nori to spill his guts about everything that had happened when they were still in public.

 

Neither he nor Nori said anything as they made their way back down to the first floor, the murkrow still perched on Ori's shoulder. The same dwarrowdam who'd helped him earlier had yet another book for him to write in, before she went into the back for Nori’s things. She returned with a folded pile of travel clothes, a pokeball belt draped across the top, and another disapproving glance at the murkrow. “There’s a side room,” she said, pointing to a small alcove past a few more bustling officials. “You can change back there. We need the uniform back.” Ori very much hoped they planned to wash it.

The dwarrowdam, who belatedly introduced herself as Jari, had him sign out of the original log while he waited for Nori to return. It was tedious, not that he minded at this point. He would sign whatever was put in front of him if it meant they got to leave this place. She at least looked sympathetically at him as she added her signature to the end of Ori's line.

“You might not want to hear this,” she said, “at least not from me, but see if you can keep your brother out of trouble...? He would be locked up for good right now if Vestri kept better records. I think you’d better get home first, though. You look like you could use a mug of beer.”

 _I could_ , Ori thought wearily. _Not that I’m likely to get one._ At this point, he would settle for a simple dinner.

He waited next to the alcove for Nori to finish, trying to stay out of the way; and then there was yet another log at the guard post that they needed to fill out with the time of their departure before they were allowed to pass into freedom. The guard with the book spent the whole time scowling at Nori, mouth just visible beneath his strange headpiece. Ori scribbled as fast as he could, half-afraid that the guard would grab his brother and march him straight back inside. Nori, for his part, feigned ignorance the whole time, buffing his nails on his dusty jacket. He threw an arm around Ori's shoulder as they walked out into the open street, joining the thin crowd of pedestrians. “Are we all done?” he drawled.

“Yes,” Ori said. "I suppose."

Another wave of anxiety crept up over him, and he stamped down on the urge to sigh again. What was Nori going to do now? Ori had no idea, especially since they hadn't had the chance to talk much while they were inside.

Then again, Nori always chose the words he _did_ say very carefully. He had only mentioned that he was captured in Dale, _not_ that he was planning to come back to Erebor. So what if he only wanted to leave again? The thought made Ori's stomach churn. Now that his brother was here, he at least wanted the chance to spend time with him.

Oblivious to Ori's tangled thoughts, Nori tightened his grip, until he was steering Ori back towards the Berylbridge shortcut through the rougher neighborhoods. “I’d better walk you back,” he said, sounding resigned. “I can explain to Dori what you’ve done.”

“What _I’ve_ done?” Ori turned his head sharply so he could look at his brother. Nori was making it sound as though he wasn't even thankful to be free, like Ori had only made a big mistake in going to the jail for him. “As if I--as if _we_ would leave you there!”

“I’m not complaining, Ori. But I don’t think it was very smart.”

Nori’s voice wasn’t unkind, but Ori felt a stab of hurt anyway; and he didn’t say anything else for the rest of the way home.


End file.
